


Rock Me

by flitwickslittlebrotha



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Enjolras + co are boring grad students, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, Smut, dumb title i might change it, grantaire + co are in a rock band, sry i love that ship, this is e/r endgame but has a healthy dose of r/monty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 16:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15610098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flitwickslittlebrotha/pseuds/flitwickslittlebrotha
Summary: Grantaire is the drummer in his NYC-based band, The Drunk Revolution. For the past four years he's been maintaining a steady but casual relationship with its guitarist, Montparnasse, while singer Eponine and bassist Bahorel grow more and more concerned. But when the band leaves Grantaire behind one weekend, out of town on a gig he's unable to attend, a new figure steps into their lives. Although this meeting between Grantaire and Enjolras is brief, it begins a whirlwind of a year that brings together new friends, dissolves old relationships, and beats on to the relentless rhythm of a drum.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't make any promises on how regularly this fic will be updated. Right now I'm on a good writing binge but it could be a few months until it's done for all I know. It's been a while since I've done creative writing and I have no beta! Help a girl out and leave a comment if something is confusing :)

              The world looked more in focus, that was for sure.

              Grantaire raised his glasses, squinting out into Washington Square Park. He could see people chatting and squirrels chasing each other, the sights he had been seeing for the two years he’d lived in the Village. But when he lowered his new glasses back down to his nose he could also see the veins in the leaves that had started to dust the Autumn ground, the mist escaping from the fountain. He could see the details of the world around him he hadn’t known were there.

              At least the eye appointment was worth it.

              When the band got invited to a festival out in California he’d initially been thrilled. It was all thanks to Jehan – he’d hooked up with one of the festival’s organizers when they all took that trip a few years back and had clearly left an impression. The Drunk Revolution had already played a few quick tours, since all four of them quit their day jobs (or graduated, in Grantaire’s case) and went full-time with their music two years ago. But they hadn’t yet been invited to a major festival, let alone a gig all the way across the country. This was exactly the kind of recognition they needed to continue their growth and maybe go mainstream. But then Grantaire noticed the dates conflicted with the eye appointment he had finally conceded into making. Eponine told him to reschedule but when he called the receptionist told him there wasn’t another opening until late November. So Bahorel told him to wait: _“What’s another three months when you’ve been living this way for 24 years?”_ It was Montparnasse who assured him the festival wouldn’t be worth it. His familiar and authoritative voice convinced Grantaire that his need to see was, in fact, more important than a gig, and that The Drunk Revolution would be fine without him. They called up Feuilly to see if he would be down to learn a few of their songs and fly out to California, and that was that.

              Well, that was the beginning of Grantaire’s envy. Eponine has been oh-so- _thoughtful_ enough to keep him updated through Snapchat, and Jehan had posted videos of their set to the band’s Instagram. From Jehan’s backstage angle, Grantaire could see not only his friends’ incredible performance, but a wild and enthusiastic crowd. He felt a small pang at the applause Feuilly’s drum solo got, knowing it could have been his.

              But instead he stayed home and met with an eye doctor, walking away with a pair of cheap and temporary glasses while those he was prescribed were being shipped. Admittedly, he hadn’t even known his eyes were that bad – he thought that was just how the world looked.

              Grantaire surveyed the park, enjoying his new ability to see clearly. He was alone for the first time in a while. Although technically only he and Eponine were roommates, Montparnasse frequently got bored in his trust-funded apartment and crashed with his bandmates. Bahorel was the oldest of the four and ran in a slightly different circle, but although he lived with friends from college he saw the band every day for rehearsals, and more often than not chose to spend his free time with them instead of his roommates. Now that they were all in California, taking Jehan along with them to act as quasi-manager, Grantaire noticed how small his group of friends was. He hadn’t realized how little effort he put into meeting new people or staying in touch with the old. He thought about texting the cute barista from The Musain, Courfeyrac, to see if he wanted to grab a drink that night. He sat down on a bench, weighing his options (Courfeyrac was fun, but he couldn’t remember a time they’d ever hung out one-on-one), and considered his companions in the park.

              A college-aged student was offering to draw portraits for only a few dollars. Grantaire smiled, remembering when he used to do the same only a few years ago. He had always been good with his hands, but eventually music found a bigger place in his heart than art. Elsewhere in the park two young women were talking animatedly, although about what Grantaire couldn’t hear. They looked happy, and Grantaire felt a pang of loneliness again. Surrounding the park were a group of people wearing bright neon t-shirts, trying to give pamphlets and flyers to those who walked by them. Grantaire pitied the group; it wasn’t like he didn’t support activists in _theory_ , but he knew in reality their work was futile. Not far away from him a ragged man was sleeping on a bench, hair matted and shoes worn-out.

              Grantaire sighed, trying to reconfigure his jaded moodiness into contentedness. After all, it wasn’t often he could sit and relax, knowing he had no meetings or rehearsals or commitments for another two days.

              He pulled out a cigarette.

              “Excuse me.”

              Grantaire looked up, and the cigarette nearly fell from his lips. He internally blessed whatever cosmic fate granted him new glasses and better eyesight on that particular morning, because if he ever needed a time for high-definition this was it.

              Before him stood one of the neon-clad activists, but it wasn’t his shirt that caught his attention. A frame of wispy blond curls created a halo around the man’s head, as they were too unruly to be contained by his ponytail. His sharp, clean-shaven jaw was clenched tight, full lips pressed downward. His brow was furrowed over two piercingly green eyes, eyes which were staring directly into Grantaire’s.

              He looked so unbelievably self-righteous, so _stupidly_ sanctimonious, that Grantaire couldn’t help but fall in love a little bit. He always had a thing for the pretentious type.

              “Do you have a minute?” the man asked. Grantaire quickly regained composure, trying on a bit of confidence and charm.

              “For you? I have all the time in the world,” he replied, smiling before taking a drag on his cigarette.

              The man rolled his eyes but flushed a bit. Grantaire considered it a win.

              “I’m with the NYU LGBT Center,” the man explained. “There’s going to be an option on the ballot this November to vote for a new bill which would safeguard an individual company or establishment’s right to discriminate against transgender customers. We’re collecting signatures to show our senators we don’t approve of this, and to raise awareness to vote no.” The man held out a clipboard and pen with the hand that wasn’t holding flyers. Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

              “And what exactly will my signature do?” he asked.

              “Your signature shows dissatisfaction with the bill,” the man replied.

              Grantaire laughed.

              “Dissatisfaction? So, what, it’s basically reacting with an angry emoji on Facebook? Sorry, hon, you don’t need my signature, I promise it won’t do anything anyway.”

              The man flushed again, although this time Grantaire thought it had more to do with anger than his little endearment.

              “Your signature will not directly prevent the bill, no, although your vote in November will,” he emphasized, as if using sheer willpower to force Grantaire to the polls. “But your signature tells our senators they need to be vocal about this bill, they need to spread awareness about its existence and dangers. They –”

              “So I’m blindly listening to you tell me how to vote so I can tell my senator to preach to the populace so _they_ can blindly vote?” Grantaire interjected. Enjolras sputtered a bit.

              “ _Blindly_ tell- so are you saying you don’t support LGBT rights?” he challenged, hands on hips despite the materials they still held.

              “Don’t support LGBT rights?” Grantaire echoed back. He flashed a smile through his cigarette. “Tell you what, I’ll sign your petition if you give me your number.”

              Enjolras’ jaw dropped.

              “Ex _cuse_ me?” he asked, voice and expression darkening in tandem.

              “Are you saying you don’t support LGBT relationships?” Grantaire asked in return, coyly looking up at the man who was still towering over him.

              “How _dare_ you turn this important issue into a mockery, how dare you equate the problems facing trans New Yorkers to something as silly as getting my _number_ —”

              “Alright, alright,” Grantaire said laughing. He reached out and took the clipboard and pen from the man’s hands, signing his name and cell in the appropriate boxes. That mollified the man a little. “If you won’t give me yours I’ve give you mine, see, phone number, right there.” The man grabbed the clipboard back out of Grantaire’s grasp, inhaling to begin another rant, but Grantaire held his hands up in mock surrender. “ _Kidding_ , kidding, I’m kidding. I… I do think this is important and I… I thank you for _raising my awareness_ to this bill,” he said, tone serious for the first time. The man nodded curtly, avoiding eye contact as his demeanor softened. “I’m Grantaire, by the way.”

              “Enjolras,” the man said.

              “Well, Enjolras,” Grantaire took another deep drag on his cigarette. “See you around sometime.” He noticed the man’s lips gave a quick quirk upward, before schooling themselves back to a neutral expression.

              “Thank you for your signature, Grantaire.”

              The man, Enjolras, looked at him for another moment, before quickly turning on his heel and walking away. But he only made it a few feet before he tossed his head back, calling cheerily over his shoulder – “ _You might not have heard, but those things’ll kill you!”_ before sauntering away.

              Grantaire smiled around his cigarette, feeling far too happy about missing the music festival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV will switch between Grantaire and Enjolras depending on whose plot we're following. Scenes where they interact like this one will likely be Grantaire's POV. (to quote sathinfection's tumblr textpost: "‘why don’t you ever write enjolras pov? he’s so mysterious in your fics’ well 2 b brutally honest about this one i can’t describe how hot enjolras is from enjolras’s pov")


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor infidelity, and doubtless grammar mistakes.

              “Damn, you were fuckin’ _blind_ , man!”

              “Shut up, they’re not that bad,” Grantaire said, reaching up to pull his glasses off Bahorel’s face. The taller man pushed them up and down his nose a few times, testing their strength, before allowing Grantaire to snatch them back.

              Eponine walked up to the pair, dragging a small, clean suitcase in one hand and a dirty, overstuffed one in the other. She dropped the latter directly onto Bahorel’s feet.

              “Ouch, what the fuck, Eponine!” he exclaimed. She simply shrugged, pulling Grantaire in for a hug.

              “Take care of your own fucking suitcase,” she replied over her shoulder. She pulled back from the hug, petting Grantaire’s face a bit as he scrunched up his nose in distaste. She smiled. “You look good.”

              Two days had passed since Grantaire got his temporary glasses, and The Drunk Revolution was returning home. Although they were all city-dwellers and were perfectly capable of making it home from the airport on their own, Grantaire decided to meet them there, eager to see his friends again. They were only gone for a long weekend, but Eponine’s skin had darkened even more, and Grantaire knew they had hit the beach from the pictures she had sent.

              “Thanks,” he replied, a little self-conscious. Since they grew up together Eponine knew him like the back of her hand. Puberty was rough on him and Grantaire developed a lot of body image issues in high school. It was around the same time Eponine got hot, and it wasn’t easy to watch their friend group slowly divide as Eponine gained popularity while he lost it. Nevertheless, she always chose him over her other friends, and when they turned 18 and moved out of the apartment building they grew up in, they remained close as ever when Grantaire went to college and Eponine went straight into the workforce. He knew he was attractive now, age refining his features, but Eponine must have known getting glasses would make him feel like he was in high school again. Although this shape didn’t fit his face quite right, he appreciated Eponine’s approval nonetheless. “You look good, too. Although I kind of forgot how often you guys say ‘fuck.’”

              “Who guys fuck?”

              Grantaire looked past Eponine to see Montparnasse approaching with a massive grin on his face, Feuilly and Jehan trailing behind him. Grantaire smiled. Eponine might be his rock, but he had missed Montparnasse more. They weren’t lovers, not quite, but they were definitely more than friends. Grantaire thought back to when the two of them first met.

              It was at The Musain, and he and Eponine were attending one of the café’s open mic nights. They weren’t performing, simply enjoying a night of free music at a place they would soon come to love. It was a little over four years ago, when Grantaire was still in school. The place was crowded, and Grantaire was grumpy at the wristband he was forced to wear, proof of his being underage. Eponine tugged him over to a corner table and they settled in.

              Courfeyrac got up to the mic and introduced a young kid, a senior at the Tisch school. The kid walked onstage, gently removing his oversized and faded army jacket to reveal a toned body visible through his tight t-shirt. He slid onto the stool – everything he did was graceful and smooth, and Grantaire was enamored. He looked over to Eponine, whose eyes were likewise glued to the musician, who was now settling a guitar into his lap. Grantaire smirked, turning back to the stage.

              The boy was Montparnasse, of course, and his set was stunning. He played softly, never once looking into the audience, staying wrapped up in his own world. Yet everyone in the crowded café was focused on him, a hush enveloping the audience as it had not done for any other performer that night. When he finished Montparnasse looked out for the first time, offering a shy smile and wave, thanking the house. He nodded at Courfeyrac, kissing his cheek as he walked past him offstage, and slipped into the small group of performers.

              Courfeyrac introduced the next act and the sound in the café picked up again. Grantaire and Eponine turned toward each other.

              “Wow,” Eponine said.

              “I know,” Grantaire replied excitedly.

              “I mean, like, _wow_ ,” she repeated.

              “Ep, I know,” Grantaire said.

              “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked, turning away from her friend to seek out the sight of the guitarist once more.

              “Absolutely,” Grantaire nodded. And at the same time Eponine stated _“We have to get him for the band”_ Grantaire declared “I have to get him to fuck me.”

              Grantaire and Montparnasse did end up going home together that night, the former inviting the latter back to his single dorm room. But when Grantaire pushed Montparnasse against the door he had just slammed shut, smashing their lips together, the latter pulled away.

              “I- I’m sorry, I can’t. I… I have a boyfriend,” Montparnasse admitted into the cold room.

              Grantaire stopped short.

              “Oh shit.”

              He flipped on the lights, taking a step back from Montparnasse, who sighed and leaned forward to rest his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire was at a loss for what to do. The man seemed attracted enough when Grantaire first introduced himself, and seemed eager when he suggested they go back to his place. Perhaps he misunderstood his intention, but the way he placed his hand on Grantaire’s lower back as he guided them out of the café implied otherwise.

              Grantaire awkwardly raised an arm and patted Montparnasse’s back.

              “Um… what’s happening right now,” he stated more than asked.

              Montparnasse sighed again, slowly raising his head from Grantaire’s shoulder, and looked the other man in the eyes for a few seconds before replying.

              “I’m really into you, but I have a boyfriend. And I wanna fuck you so bad–”

              “Oh god,” Grantaire interrupted.

              “—but I don’t want to cheat on him.” He ran a hand through his chestnut hair. “I’m sorry, I… I got caught up in the moment and led you on, but—”

              “No, no, don’t worry about it, I didn’t even ask if you were single—”

              “I mean, you shouldn’t have to, I totally implied I was—”

              “Hey, it’s okay, I…” Grantaire trailed off. Even with the harsh university lighting glaring down on them, Montparnasse’s chocolate eyes were intoxicating. Grantaire swallowed. Montparnasse licked his lips.

              Hesitantly, Grantaire reached out a hand to cup the back of Montparnasse’s neck. The other didn’t move, simply staring back evenly. Ever so slowly, Grantaire leaned in, pressing onto his toes a bit to match the other man’s height. He didn’t pull Montparnasse toward him, but merely shortened the distance between their mouths inch by inch. Finally, when their lips were nearly touching, Montparnasse grabbed Grantaire, pulling him into an electric kiss. Montparnasse moaned as Grantaire sighed into the kiss, before the latter pulled away ruefully. He reached over to his desk, only a foot away in the small room. Presenting a pen from his back pocket, Grantaire neatly wrote his number on a post-it, sticking it to the front of Montparnasse’s shirt with a smile.

              “Call me, yeah?”

              Montparnasse smiled in return, removing the note to place it in his wallet.

              “Yeah,” he replied, straightening himself out to leave.

              Grantaire walked him out, down the two flights of stairs to the street entrance.

              “By the way,” he called out to Montparnasse, who was already retreating into the dark night. Montparnasse turned around, eyebrows raising. “Great set tonight.” The two men smiled, and Montparnasse walked away.

              Less than a month later Montparnasse had broken up with Jehan, with whom he was still clearly good friends, and was an official member of The Drunk Revolution. The first time he had sex with Grantaire was earth-shattering; they stayed locked up in Montparnasse’s room for a full day, alternating between eating and fucking. But despite their blossoming friendship and incredible sexual chemistry, the two remained casual over the next four years, never calling themselves boyfriends. They frequently hooked up with other people, but always had a tacit understanding they would continue to hook up with each other, too. Eponine had prodded Grantaire several times, trying to figure out their weird relationship, but Grantaire never knew why they kept things the way they did. Or at least he never tried to figure it out, avoiding self-reflection at all costs, and _certainly_ never asking Montparnasse about his own motivations.

              Montparnasse introduced Eponine and Grantaire to Bahorel, with whom he had played a few gigs. Bahorel was already 24 at the time, and coaching full-time at the local youth gym, but was happy to make music with the band on the weekends, becoming the final piece in their quartet. Two years and two EPs later, he quit his job along with Eponine and Montparnasse, making The Drunk Revolution his priority.

              Bahorel was currently intercepting Montparnasse’s greeting to Grantaire at the airport, trying to bully him into carrying his suitcase, but Montparnasse pushed past him easily, wrapping Grantaire in his arms and ruffling the shorter man’s hair.

              “Ouch, Monty, you’re gonna crack a rib!” Grantaire laughed, pushing Montparnasse away. Montparnasse’s face lit up.

              “Ooh, but those _glasses_ , we wouldn’t want to crush _those_ now, would we?” Like Bahorel he went to pluck Grantaire’s glasses from his face, but Grantaire swatted his hands away, preventing him.

              “Stop it,” Grantaire said.

              “I’m serious, I like them!” Montparnasse replied.

              Grantaire rolled his eyes, pushing past him to hug Jehan and greet Feuilly, who clearly felt a little out of place in the family-esque reunion.

              Eponine took charge to usher the group out of the airport. Montparnasse insisted on getting Starbucks on their way out, which he promptly spilled on himself when Jehan lovingly tripped him, and Eponine started cursing out Bahorel when he ditched the group at the exit to meet up with his girlfriend. And despite Grantaire’s relaxing respite over the weekend, this time he was grateful for their little chaos.


	3. Chapter 3

              The Musain was empty, not a customer in sight. The autumn weather was perfect outside, so Enjolras figured everyone was taking their drinks to go. He held the door open for Combeferre, who let out a low whistle at the empty chairs and empty tables.

              “Did Courfeyrac kill everyone, or…?” he asked Enjolras jokingly.

              “Yes, and you’re next!”

              The two men whipped their heads around, to where Courfeyrac was washing windows behind them. He was elbows-deep in a soapy mixture, balancing precariously on a rickety ladder. A bubble was pushing its life-expectancy as it rested atop one of his curls. His t-shirt was stained, likely with coffee, but his sneakers were still a crisp white. Leave it to Courfeyrac to manage only dirtying his uniform and not his personal clothes.

              Combeferre blanched, as he hadn’t realized his comment was overheard.

              “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, obviously that was a joke—”

              “Relax, four-eyes,” Courfeyrac said, hopping down from the ladder and wiping his hands on his t-shirt. At that Combeferre pursed his lips, but refrained from saying anything against the moniker.

              When they first met a few years ago it took a while for the lawyer to warm up to the barista, who was always ready with a joke or nickname. Combeferre took the names personally at first, not realizing that was just Courfeyrac’s way of showing affection. But despite his reservations, Enjolras took a quick liking to the man. And if Combeferre had trusted Enjolras’ judgment of character for the two decades they were friends, he could trust Enjolras on this new guy as well. Now, he fondly tolerated Courfeyrac.

              “What can I get you guys?” Courfeyrac asked as he stepped behind the café counter.

              “Actually,” Enjolras replied, “we’re here to discuss something with you. I’d ask if you have a minute but I’m guessing you do,” he said, wryly looking around the empty room.

              “Sorry,” the barista replied, “I talk to paying customers only.” He lowered his head until his batting eyelashes hovered coquettishly above the tip jar.

              Enjolras rolled his eyes.

              Five minutes and two overpriced, over-frilled drinks later, the trio was sitting in a sunlit corner of the still-empty café. Courfeyrac sat opposite the other two, waiting to hear whatever it was they had to say. He had to admit, he had taken a liking to them much quicker than he did to most people. While he radiated friendliness, Courfeyrac knew how to draw the line between amicability and genuine interest. A lawyer and an international politics student were not his usual crowd, but their own openness was a rare find in busy New York customers. Well, at least Enjolras was always ready with polite smalltalk, which over time turned into actual conversation. Combeferre usually waited at his heel, impatient to get back to whatever Fancy Academic Jargon-y topic they were discussing in line. And so, owing largely to Courfeyrac’s shifts overlapping with the two’s coffee breaks, the three slowly got to know each other, though they rarely met up outside the world of the café.

               He genuinely had no idea what they were about to discuss with him, although judging from the small folder placed in front of Enjolras it likely was business-related.

               Enjolras cleared his throat.

               “Combeferre and I are creating a new organization. We want it to be like a university club, but one where anybody can join."

               “It’s hard to get a diverse range of ideas from members who are all paying the same tuition fee to go to a school where they share the same set of values,” Combeferre interceded. Enjolras nodded.

               “Right. The point would be to host weekly meetings where we can discuss a range of topics, from civil rights to the economy. Anybody can come and discuss, no matter their education level or political leanings.”

               “Then hopefully,” Combeferre continued, “once we have a core group and a clearer idea of about which issues our members are most passionate, we can turn those thoughts into action and organize protests or volunteer for our representatives, other methods of making the changes we want to see.”

               Both men leaned back in their chairs, looking at Courfeyrac, who had remained silent during their little pitch.

               “Um… okay,” he responded. “Have fun?”

               Enjolras leaned forward.

               “Right. We need you because… well, if we want this to be a public club we can’t just use NYU space. And since we have no means of making an income, we can’t just rent a room somewhere. _And_ because our plan is to see this club grow and have dozens of members, we don’t want to set up shop in Combeferre’s apartment.”

               “Okay. I see,” Courfeyrac said, a smirk creeping onto his face. “Let me guess. You want me to give you this place rent-free.”

               “We are _hoping_ ,” Enjolras quickly cut in, “to make this mutually beneficial. Your café only stays open an extra hour or so once a week. You’re there – only one person to pay extra. Members are encouraged to buy drinks or pastries during meetings. And we introduce a new crowd to the café to bring you more customers during the day as well.” At this Enjolras opened his folder, revealing charts and outlines, showing off how this could help the Musain in the long run. “You’re already known for your community events, I know you host an open-mic night once a month. This is on-brand, and low-risk. This place is exactly what this organization needs, and I believe pretty soon, this place will need our organization.”

                Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow and let out a slow clap, which echoed in the empty room.

                “I’m impressed. You sure know how to pitch an idea, Enjolras. Remind me why you’re not getting your masters in business?” he asked.

                “Because capitalism is the vampire sucking this country’s – oh,” he stopped, when Courfeyrac and Combeferre both began to chuckle. “Haha, very funny. _So_ easy to make fun of Enjolras. I’d expect it from Courfeyrac, but you, too, Ferre?” Enjolras asked darkly, turning to his companion. Combeferre simply shrugged, smile still on his lips, and raised his eyes to Courfeyrac, who looked pleased at making the lawyer laugh.

                “There is one small issue, though,” Courfeyrac said, taking the empty drinks from the table and getting up to put them in the dirty bin behind the counter. The two other men got up and followed him, waiting expectantly on the other side of the display case. “I don’t own the Musain. I’m any old barista, you just happen to only come during my shifts, and so think I'm more important than I actually am.”

                 “Counterpoint,” Enjolras responded, “I purposefully choose your shifts.”

                 “I’m touched, truly,” Courfeyrac drawled, placing a hand to his heart.

                 “ _And_ , no, you’re not any old barista. _You_ were the one to initiate open-mic nights, and you almost always work them as well. You’ve been working here for years, and you have more shifts than any other barista, _including_ your manager. You have pull. If you ask for this, it will happen. We don’t need to convince your boss. We need to convince you,” Enjolras continued.

                 “I am terrified by how much you know about me. Have we officially crossed the bridge from workplace associates to _friends_ , Enjolras?”

                 “We were never workplace associates, we don’t work here,” Combeferre pointed out.

                 “Okay, so _not_ friends with the Ice Queen over here, huh?” Courfeyrac purred, resting his elbow on the counter and leaning in. Combeferre rolled his eyes but blushed.

                 “Courfeyrac, please,” Enjolras cut in. Both of the other men perked up, surprised. While Enjolras was always perfectly polite, a man with incredible ability to charm, it was rare his _please_ s sounded so earnest, like he actually meant the words and not just the social exchange. “This means a lot to me. And I _do_ consider you a friend. And I would _love_ for you to be at these meetings because I value your place in my life—”

                 “Holy shit,” Courfeyrac breathed.

                 “—and we are asking you to help us make change. If I thought this would in any way jeopardize your job, I wouldn’t ask. But I think you can do this. And I just hope you want to.” Enjolras concluded.

                 There was silence in the café. Silence so loud it drowned out the city sounds seeping in through the large windows. Silence that enveloped the three men, and the counter standing resolute between them. And then, it cracked open.

                 “So. What should I tell my boss this organization is called?” Courfeyrac asked.

                 Combeferre smiled, and dropped ten dollars in the tip jar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, the Triumvirate is born.


	4. Chapter 4

             “Or what about, or what about, or what—shhhhh, I’m speaking,” Enjolras slurred in Combeferre’s general direction. He had already finished the bottle of cheap wine he picked up with Combeferre on their way to Courfeyrac’s apartment, and just cracked open a beer from the six-pack sitting on the coffee table in front of them. When Courfeyrac suggested the day before that the two men come over to his place to “discuss details over a drink,” he probably didn’t realize that “a drink” meant “a bottle.” But despite the freshness of their friendship, the conversation and the liquor flowed quickly, and the three men easily dissolved into drunken messes. They were lucky Courfeyrac’s two roommates were out of town that weekend. “What if we called it the Social And Civil Engagement Group – SACEG?” Enjolras continued.

              “Say—saygic,” Combeferre tried to repeat, failing spectacularly. He and Enjolras volleyed back and forth trying to wrap their intoxicated mouths around the acronym.

              “Or, what about, Group For People Who Want Change – Guf, Gufpwooc,” Enjolras went on, before erupting into giggles. Combeferre’s laughter intermingled with his, his glasses slipping off his nose as his head tossed back. The two boys were tangled on the couch, and each time they looked at each other their laughter rang out again.

              “Christ,” Courfeyrac finally interjected, taking a large gulp of his wine, which he had the decency to pour into an actual glass. He stood up, wobbling at first, before putting on a haughty, condescending expression, eyebrows raising and lips curling down. “I hereby dub your alphabet soup: The ABC! Choose your own words!”

              “Ayy, hear hear!” Enjolras called, clapping. Combeferre seconded the approval, and Courfeyrac managed to only spill a little wine as he took a bow.

              “The ABC, the greatest— the greatest acanym we ever did have!” Combeferre said, stumbling over his words.

              “To the ABC!” Enjolras echoed, raising his beer. The other two men _clink_ ed glasses before eagerly downing their contents. “Now we just gotta, we just gotta find people. We gotta get people to come to the thing.”

              “Enjolras here,” Combeferre loudly whispered to Courfeyrac, “is a member of the NYU LGBT Center—” he paused, frowning. “Wow. They should just change their name to the ABC. It’s so much easier—”

              “Stop giving our name away!” Courfeyrac yelled.

              “—But Enjolras is a member of the NYU LGBT ABC, so he’s gonna find all the gays in New York City and bring ‘em all to our group. Do not worry a curl on your head, friend,” he finished, offering Courfeyrac a very sloppy smile, satisfied at his wisdom.

              “ _And_ I have the numbers of many, many strangers I talked to in the park. And I don’t know about you deadweights, but I am perfectly happy to illegally use them to heckle people to come to our meetings!” Enjolras proudly declared.

              “Yes! That’s the spirit!” Courfeyrac said, jumping across the coffee table to give Enjolras a hug. “We fight crime with crime! Write that down! Somebody write that down as a slogan!” Combeferre dutifully pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled the words on his arm. “Gays and strangers, I love this club!”

              “But what about,” Combeferre paused for dramatic effect. Enjolras and Courfeyrac leaned in, mesmerized. “ _Gay strangers_.” Enjolras and Courfeyrac erupted.

              “That brain! Where has that brain been all my life!” Courfeyrac exclaimed more than asked, placing smacking kisses on both of Combeferre’s cheeks. “New slogan! ABC: Gay Strangers!”

              “To gay strangers!” Enjolras called out, passing out the remaining three beer bottles. “Actually, I met a gay stranger! I have his number! He tried to get me to go out with him,” he slowly remembered, giddiness falling into concentration and confusion. He had forgotten about that encounter in the park, with the friendly and infuriating boy. What was his name again?

              Combeferre moved dangerously into Enjolras’ personal space. He grabbed his chin in his hand, forcing the blonde to make eye contact. He lowered his voice when he spoke.

“I _dare_ you, Enjolras, I _dare_ you, to text that boy _right now._ ”

              “Text him! Text him! Text him!” Courfeyrac began to chant. None of the three men could explain why this text was suddenly so important to them, nor did they take any time to consider the benefits or risks of soliciting a stranger, who may or may not be gay, and whose number they wanted to use for personal reasons. But in their shared drunken and euphoric state, they all began the exciting task of scrolling through Enjolras’ phone, examining the photos he had taken of the signature sheets, to try to figure out which of the many names belonged to the mystery man who flirted with him in the park.

              “It’s him! This one! I remember!” Enjolras triumphantly exclaimed. The name was slightly smudged on the paper, but Enjolras recognized its placement on the sheet. The other two men hollered, and Courfeyrac began to ramble something like an acceptance speech.

              “Text him right now!” Combeferre pushed.

              And the three new friends, now very drunk but very bonded, sent a text which travelled from Courfeyrac’s apartment through the chilly New York night, and landed in a _ding_ on the phone of a man who was just about to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol tbh this chapter might get edited later, its such a mess, just like these boys  
> yes, yes, i completely changed the meaning of the ABC, but this is fic and i can do what i want
> 
> UPDATE: April 8: New chapter coming soon I promise! its basically just smut lol


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 85% smut. And before you get mad, I promise this is an E/R love story.

              “Remind me again why you’re doing this in _my_ room?” Grantaire asked, sling-shotting a sock to Eponine’s head from where it had fallen into his lap. She huffed, grabbing the sock and folding it with its pair.

              “Because I was hoping you’d help me, _dear_ ,” she replied in a voice so sweet it could only be fake. Eponine had her laundry scattered all over Grantaire’s room, much to his chagrin. Although she was a meticulous folder, she didn’t care about the mess she made along the way. This explained why socks intermittently fell in front of Grantaire, who was messing around with his phone as he lounged on the bed. “Got something better to do? Trying to beat a high score? Sexting?”

              Grantaire only raised an eyebrow at her, not bothering to respond.

              “Sexting? No need, I’m right here.” Grantaire and Eponine both turned to the door. “Honey, I’m home.” Montparnasse was standing in the doorway, a cat’s grin on his face. Long and lean, he seemed oh-so-casual resting against the wooden frame, effortlessly cool – a trait which had in fact taken much effort to acquire.

              He sauntered into the room, ignoring Eponine completely and heading straight for the bed and Grantaire. Grantaire smiled, tossing his phone aside as Montparnasse sank down, leaning in to give the drummer an open-mouthed kiss. Grantaire let his legs slide out under him, until both boys were pressed against each other, the full length of their bodies meeting in harmony.

              “Ew, goodbye,” Eponine said, leaving her laundry behind as she left the room. She closed the door behind her, and a quiet stillness fell over the room.

              “Hey,” Montparnasse said softly, nose brushing against Grantaire’s.

              “Hey,” Grantaire replied. He leaned up for another kiss, which Montparnasse gave easily. They weren’t rushed, and kept their movements lazy and slow. Montparnasse trailed a finger from Grantaire’s temple down to his jaw, curling it back up behind his ear.

              “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly into their shared breath.

              “You saw me yesterday,” Grantaire replied, unable to put too much snark into his voice. Because the truth was, he missed this too. Nothing in the world was as easy as being with Montparnasse, and try as he might to find someone else, the guitarist was always his first choice on a lonely night. There was something delicious in the twisted feeling it brought Grantaire to be with Montparnasse. The comfort of feeling cared for and the thrill of caring for someone else, marred by the guilt he felt every time he remembered they were “just friends.” Using Montparnasse’s body because he knew he could, knowing also that he could never give it up. That he was captor and captive, just as unable leave as he was willing to take. And right now, confused and lost and desperate all at once, Montparnasse’s attention was exactly what he needed to overwhelm his senses and disappear.

              Montparnasse slipped his fingers into Grantaire’s hand, interlocking, pulling it up above his head until it reached the headboard. With his other hand he trailed down Grantaire’s body, lifting the hem of his shirt so skin could find skin.

              Grantaire inhaled sharply, remembering the last time they did this, forgetting a second later, erasing anything that’s ever happened before this moment, living right here and right now. Montparnasse left Grantaire’s hand at the headboard, coming down to scrape his nails into the other man’s scalp as he took hold of his curls, pulling back to expose Grantaire’s neck.

              Grantaire moaned, and his desperation kicked in. He reached down to rub Montparnasse through his jeans, needing more, needing it quicker. There was no longer anything lazy about this, and Grantaire knew it would be over far sooner than he would like.

              As if reading his mind, Montparnasse removed both of his hands from Grantaire’s skin, placing them on the bed on either side of his torso. He lifted his hips, hovering above the other man, not allowing their bodies to touch. He smiled.

              “Uh-uh, mister. You’ll take what I give you, at whatever pace I want,” he commanded, voice low.

              Grantaire looked up into those brown eyes he knew so well. _God_ he loved Montparnasse in moments like these. He envied his ability to always be so controlled, no matter the situation. That didn’t stop him from being a little shit and trying to get under his skin, anyway.

              In a quick movement, Grantaire hit one of Montparnasse’s arms, causing the man to lose balance and fall down onto the drummer. Grantaire quickly slid to the side, narrowly avoiding Montparnasse’s full weight, before flipping them both over and landing in the other’s lap, straddling him as he gazed down smugly. Montparnasse looked stunned for a moment, before he let out a laugh. Grantaire knew Montparnasse loved how much he could surprise him, just as Grantaire loved always staying one step ahead.

              Montparnasse’s laugh died on his lips as Grantaire slowly peeled off his shirt, crossing his arms across his chest, as if unwrapping a present. If Montparnasse wanted to keep it slow, Grantaire would keep it slow. He smirked at how the tables had turned.

              “Shit, babe,” Montparnasse said as Grantaire started rolling his hips. He slid his hands up Grantaire’s thighs, enjoying the show. But Grantaire lifted himself from Montparnasse’s lap, stepping off the bed entirely. “No, don’t go,” Montparnasse whined, trying to pull Grantaire back.

              “Don’t go?” Grantaire questioned from the side of the bed. He rested his hands on the band of his jeans. “But then I wouldn’t be able to take these off.” And ever-so-slowly he undid the buttons, sliding the zipper down. He ran his hands down his own skin, dipping in the front of his pants to touch himself, a sight that made Montparnasse moan. Montparnasse in turn snaked a hand down his own pants, rubbing himself as he watched Grantaire strip. Grantaire peeled his jeans down his hips, revealing nothing but bare skin underneath, before letting his pants drop completely around his ankles. He stepped out of them, strutting naked toward the bed.

              “God, this is gonna be so amazing,” Montparnasse said as Grantaire crawled onto the mattress. The two men were barely touching, with only Montparnasse’s steadying hand resting chastely on Grantaire’s hip. Grantaire leaned in to press his open mouth against the other’s.

              “This won’t just be amazing,” he whispered. “It will be glorious.”

              Their lips crashed together, Montparnasse’s arms wrapping around Grantaire’s back and pulling him down. Grantaire quickly got his hands under the other man’s shirt, tugging it up and off his body. Montparnasse wrapped his hand around Grantaire’s cock as the latter went to remove the last items of clothing between them. Montparnasse shimmied out of his jeans almost frantically, but Grantaire stopped him from removing his briefs, wanting to take his time again. He looked up slowly, locking eyes with the guitarist. Both smiled wickedly.

              “Kill me, babe,” Montparnasse said. In response, Grantaire took his palm and kissed it, before slowly moving down the bed. He never lost eye contact with the other, blue peeking out through dark eyelashes, to meet brown glancing under haughty lids. Only when his head reached Montparnasse’s hips did Grantaire finally look away, in order to lean in and kiss a hipbone. His lips parted against the skin, and soon his tongue joined in. Montparnasse raked his fingers through Grantaire’s dark curls, and that’s when Grantaire sank his teeth into the former’s hip.

              Montparnasse inhaled sharply, fingers tightening in Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire smiled at the sound, before closing his lips around that same spot, licking, biting, sucking, until magenta bloomed under his mouth. He placed his hand atop Montparnasse’s briefs, and the man sighed at the contact. Grantaire gently crawled his fingernails up Montparnasse’s clothed length. The sigh became a whine, rising in pitch in tandem with the rising fingers. Grantaire’s grip reached the waistband, and he tugged down, revealing Montparnasse’s erection.

              With the lightest of touches, he wrapped his hand around Montparnasse, barely even moving it. The man’s breath was coming in short releases, and he dug his fingers into Grantaire’s shoulders, trying to push the latter closer to his body. He was driven wild, touched just enough to fill his body with heat, not enough for pleasure. But Grantaire only smiled, continuing his torture.

              “Please, Grantaire, oh god, please, I need—I need—god you’re killing me,” Montparnasse pleaded, eyes screwed closed.

              “You asked for it,” Grantaire replied, voice low and slow. But his own resolve was breaking, and he was so turned on he was losing grip on any kind of thought process. So finally, finally, he dipped his head and wrapped his lips around the tip of Montparnasse’s length. The man let out a satisfied sigh, and settled his hands in Grantaire’s curls. Grantaire gently but steadily began a rhythm, working his mouth up and down Montparnasse’s cock in time with the fist he wrapped around his own. But his reverence dissolved with each passing second, movements growing rougher and more insistent, until Montparnasse, too, could not remain so controlled.

              He began bucking his hips, keeping Grantaire’s head locked between them, both men loving every minute of it. Until suddenly Montparnasse yanked the other man from his actions, Grantaire’s lips shiny and red as he pulled away. He looked utterly lascivious, eyes half-lidded as he rubbed himself, and Montparnasse’s voice grew as dark as his irises.

              “Get on your back. Hands on the headboard,” he commanded.

              “Yes, sir,” Grantaire replied cheekily as he complied, crawling up the bed and excited for wherever this was going. Montparnasse gave his ass a _smack_ as he passed by.

              “Was that snark I heard?” he questioned playfully. Grantaire settled into place and raised an eyebrow.

              “What are you gonna do about it?” he asked. In lieu of answering, Montparnasse slowly stalked up the bed, pressing a hand up Grantaire’s firm body as he did so, pushing. His hand wrapped around the other’s throat, grip secure but not too tight.

              “Open up.”

              Grantaire let his lips fall open, gaze unbroken as Montparnasse lowered his length between them. He was given a few seconds to adjust to the new position, and used them to swirl his tongue around Montparnasse’s head, before the latter began to get rough. Montparnasse was unforgiving as his hips thrust, fucking into the drummer’s mouth. His palms were braced against the wall, the bed was rocking, but neither cared, too lost in pleasure. Grantaire removed a hand from the headboard to wrap around Montparnasse’s thigh, steadying him, encouraging him, telling him _more_. Soon, Montparnasse was losing his rhythm. He looked down at Grantaire’s face, reaching his hand to his curls to grab his attention. Grantaire looked up at him, blue eyes and dark lashes, and that was all Montparnasse needed.

              “Oh god, R—” he stuttered out. Grantaire pressed his fingers into the back of Montparnasse’s thigh, tight enough to bruise, and Montparnasse was coming into his mouth. Grantaire swallowed, and moved out of the way so the other could collapse face-down on the bed, exhausted and spent.

              “Nuh-uh,” Grantaire sing-songed, “I’m not done with you yet.” He trailed a finger down the man’s spine, his other hand fisting around his own cock.

              “I can’t, you wore me out already,” Montparnasse half-heartedly protested, but the smile that crept onto his face showed Grantaire he didn’t mean his words.

              “Well lucky for you,” Grantaire said, reaching into his nightstand next to the bed, “you don’t have to do anything but lie there and take it like a good boy.” Montparnasse let out a moan at the words, shifting his body to give Grantaire access. Grantaire popped the cap of the lube, squeezing out a good amount. “Ready, baby?” he asked.

              “Yes,” Montparnasse sighed, spreading his legs. Grantaire took his ass in both hands, spreading his cheeks even wider, revealing all of Montparnasse to him. He just looked for a moment, taking in the sight – his best friend, open and willing.

              “God, you’re such a slut, Monty, you know that, right?” he whispered, still not touching the other man where he needed to be touched.

              “Fuck me, Grantaire, please,” he replied, voice desperate even as his face was still smushed into the pillow. And Grantaire did not need to be told twice. He pressed his finger against Montparnasse’s hole, sliding in. The man let out a high whine, his tender body betraying his overstimulation. Grantaire pushed on, adding another finger. He was moving too fast, giving too much, but he had reached his limit and needed release. After adding a third, Montparnasse let out a moan that was closer to a sob, and Grantaire froze.

              “Shit, are you okay?” he asked, panic infusing into his voice, his body. Montparnasse responded by spreading his legs even wider, guiding Grantaire’s hand back.

              “So okay, please, please, keep going,” he replied, lost in lust. Grantaire took his cock in hand and guided it to his hole, pressing in. It had been a while since he last topped Montparnasse, enough time to forget how amazing it felt, how they fit together perfectly. He knew he was a goner.

              After only a handful of thrusts Grantaire finished, spilling directly into the other man. He collapsed, tangling himself in the other’s arms. They both lay there, silent, breathing, coming down. After a minute, Montparnasse spoke.

              “Shit.”

Grantaire laughed, kissing his shoulder.

              “Yeah,” he agreed.

They basked in another minute of silence, Grantaire jumping at the unexpected knock that then sounded at his door.

              “Y’all done?” Eponine called out. At that Grantaire’s eyes widened, and he sat up straight.

              “Oh _shit_ ,” he echoed, scrambling off the bed. He searched through the myriad of clothes in his room, a combination of his, Eponine’s, and Montparnasse’s, to find something vaguely clean to throw on. Montparnasse simply laughed as he watched from the bed, showing no signs of moving. “Get the fuck up,” Grantaire said, finally landing on a pair of sweatpants.

              “What charming pillow talk,” Montparnasse replied, lazily rolling out of bed. He picked up a pink towel from the floor and wrapped it around his waist, before opening the door to greet Eponine. “Think you’re gonna need to do another load of laundry, sweetheart,” he drawled as he smugly walked past her. He didn’t look back to where he left Grantaire in the room, so he didn’t see the way his expression fell, looking after him with something lost and longing in his eyes, the set of his mouth.

              “Was the towel really necessary?” Eponine called after him, as she shut the door behind her, entering back into Grantaire’s room. “ _Woah_ it smells in here. Jesus, R,” she said as she started picking her clothes up from the floor. Grantaire sighed and sank back onto the bed. Eponine paused, noticing his mood, decidedly out of place in the post-sex room. She looked back toward the closed door, then hesitantly at her now-despondent friend, realizing what had happened. “Hey, sorry, Grantaire. I didn’t know he’d leave, I would have left you guys alone—”

              “Don’t worry about it,” Grantaire cut her off. “I don’t mind.” But Eponine could tell something was wrong, with the way he immediately resumed playing on his phone, as if the past half hour hadn’t happened, as if Eponine had never left the room. She gently placed her clothes back on the bed, and gingerly sat down.

              “R, can we talk?” she ventured. Grantaire didn’t even look up.

              “No.”

              “R,” she tried again, voice harder. Grantaire sighed and refused eye contact, but he put down his phone and folded his hands in his lap. Eponine took that as a concession. “R, honey. I get it. I really do. I completely, 100% understand where you’re coming from, and I understand why you’re staying.” She didn’t use names, but there was no doubt in Grantaire’s mind she was talking about Montparnasse, and this weird friends-with-benefits relationship they’d been entertaining for the past four years. “And there’s a lot that’s so great about your relationship, and so many reasons it still seems like a good idea.” Grantaire braced himself. “…but you _know_ it’s not healthy anymore.” He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “It made sense in the beginning, but it’s just not good – for _either_ of you – to keep this up after so long.” Grantaire remained silent. Eponine moved in closer. “You both need to either make that commitment, or to move on. For good.”

              Grantaire rolled his eyes, finally reacting.

              “What, are you saying you want the band to break up?” he asked, bitterness infusing his voice. He hated the itching under his skin, the knots in his stomach, the voice in his head telling him Eponine was right.

              “Not at all,” she replied. “I know you both can handle it. If these past four years have taught us anything it’s that you guys are weirdly able to be normal around each other no matter what.” For the first time all afternoon Grantaire dragged his eyes to meet Eponine’s. They were shining.

              “I’m scared,” he whispered. Eponine did not expect this response, and immediately rolled in closer, bringing an arm around the man. Grantaire let her, and tucked his nose against the crook of her neck, breathing in her familiar scent.

              “Oh, honey. I know,” she whispered back, stroking up and down his arm. And she did know – she knew Grantaire as well as he knew himself, knew even as she spoke that he wasn’t going to take her advice, that only something new, outside of their preestablished world, could finally make Grantaire move on and find peace.

              “Even when we say we’re gonna stop, even when he’s off fucking someone else, I always know he’s gonna come back to me. I need that. I need to know someone wants me, wants to _be_ with me. I don’t want to let him go,” Grantaire admitted into her hair, hiding his face in an attempt to hide his vulnerability.

              “I care about both of you so, so much, and it’s so hard for me to watch you go through this. I don’t have the right answer, R. I just know this has to stop.” And in both of their hearts, they knew commitment wasn’t an answer at all. Grantaire’s choice was only twofold: stay in this limbo, or leave. Happily ever after wasn’t an option. “I think it would be really good if you started looking,” Eponine continued. “You know, putting yourself out there. You’re a total catch, I have to believe there’s a nice gay man just waiting to get all up in your moodiness,” Eponine continued, trying to lighten the mood.

              Grantaire’s eyes betrayed him. They flashed to his cellphone, and his face turned pink. Eponine didn’t miss the moment. She pulled back, a smile slowly spreading on her face as her eyes widened. Her voice gradually raised in volume as she spoke.

              “Oh my god. Did you _meet_ somebody? Is that why you’ve been playing on your phone all day?” Grantaire’s face was beet red.

              “Shut up, Ep,” he grumbled.

              “I called it! You’re sexting! You’re totally sexting him!” she nearly-screeched, but her voice was muffled nevertheless, as at that moment Montparnasse _click_ ed the door open, talking over her as he barged in.

              “I believe my pants are—” he stopped short, registering the girl’s words. He slapped on a smirk. “Please, Eponine, I thought we clarified earlier there’s no need for R and I to sext when I’m right here.” He waggled his hips, still wearing Eponine’s pink towel. But before Grantaire could stop her, Eponine replied matter-of-factly:

              “Oh, I wasn’t talking about _you_ , Monty. You’re not the _only_ one Grantaire’s allowed to sext.”

The two men’s eyes locked, shocked, stone-cold, faces tinged pink, mouths agape, shoulders rigid. Something in the air broke. Montparnasse swallowed hard. His eyes never left Grantaire’s.

              “Right. Of course.” He paused. “Pants.” He awkwardly leaned down, body forgetting how to function properly. He picked up his discarded clothes, artifacts of a memory that suddenly felt different. “Hey, um, I’m actually gonna skip dinner tonight. I’ve got some stuff to take care of at my place, I’ll probably just crash there tonight,” he announced to no one in particular, brows furrowing together. Grantaire nodded curtly. Montparnasse turned. Left.

              “Bitch,” Grantaire said accusingly, once the door was closed again. But he was too tired to actually get angry.

              “I’m sorry,” Eponine replied. She picked up her clothes and headed toward the door. “But someone had to cut the first tie.” And she left Grantaire alone in his room. But alone with his cellphone, so he was not quite alone. Because he was alone with a string of one-sided text messages, and behind those text messages, a very real, very present, very blonde boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five chapters in and our love interests have barely interacted? You bet.  
> You can tell I wrote this chapter over several months because the tone keeps changing - honestly, slow updates are probably still gonna be A Thing.  
> This was the longest smut I've ever written and part of me hated writing it and part of me loved it - feedback is welcome :)


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